Friday, December 02, 2016

Holy moly it's December writing contest!

Let's celebrate the almost end of a pretty bad year with a writing contest! The usual rules apply:

1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.

2. Use these words in the story:

hope
next
year
alot
better

3. You must use the whole word, but that whole word can be part of a larger word. The letters for the prompt must appear in consecutive order. They cannot be backwards.
Thus: hope/hopefully is fine but hope/shopkeeper is not

4. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.

5. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first, then post.

6. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.

7. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)

8. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.

8a. There are no circumstances in which it is ok to ask for feedback from ME on your contest entry. NONE. (You can however discuss your entry with the commenters in the comment trail...just leave me out of it.)

9. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"

11. You agree that your contest entry can remain posted on the blog for the life of the blog. In other words, you can't later ask me to delete the entry and any comments about the entry at a later date.

12. The stories must be self-contained. That is: do not include links or footnotes to explain any part of the story. Those extras will not be considered part of the story.

The ugly beast has a menacing countenance which strikes fear in the hearts of men and women everywhere. Children don’t see the creature that way. To them he is a lovable giant and huggable. They are too young to know he is not a right kind of fellow. Uninformed adults, who do not seek to better themselves, live as the unlearned. Youngsters are simply naïve regarding the creature’s rightful self and are forgiven. Hopefully next year, all will learn the truth. The dreaded alot is not a four letter word, he is of two parts.

Sleet pierces my thin coat and bites skin, but the sight ahead offers hope. I stumble through the gate into the halo glow of garland-strung lights and Christmas trees, and smile at a man next to a balsa fir. He rushes away. My ears redden, as I know I reek of garbage.

Head down, stomach cramping, I sidle toward a family noshing pretzels, hoping their reaction will be better. Small, mittened hands extend. The father frowns.

The sky is not dark, and yet it does not glitter on the frigid cusp of midnight. It glows. “Ten!”Phones illuminate the world below, stealing time with unheard snaps. Click. Click. Tic.“Nine!”The crowd laughs. “Eight!”I inch toward them, but I’m too alone, and they’re so sure that twelve strokes and a cheer will change everything that they don’t notice.“Seven!”The wind speeds up with numbers. SixFiveFour—“Three!”Hope rises in my chest, hope as strong and welcoming as the pavement. “Two!”Next year will be a lot better than this—“One!”Everyone screams.

“Maybe we should keep one or two, just in case we need them.” She tapped a tooth thoughtfully.“Or we could just wait four years. This is wrong!” he wailed. “Hope is never a crime,” she replied, gripping the baseball bat harder. “Besides, there are still a lot of lawyers left. Where do you think most of them come from in the first place?”“We’re going to jail,” he moaned, dragging over the next one.I opened another jug and poured it into the tub. There had better be enough. “They have to catch us first,” I replied, stirring.

Before my ass can even hit the sand, my pup grabs his seat in my lap. I hang on to hope he won’t stomp my junk, but he does, and I nearly spill my beer. A bottle of Halo Top amber that tastes better than it smells.

I rinse away the remainder of the year by singing my momma’s favorite Billy Ocean tunes to her favorite actual ocean, the Atlantic. Tears come, waves go, the next morning sets the sky on fire.

“Adios, Momma.”

The walk back to the car doesn’t feel half as long as the trudge from it.

Oy, early polling was so promising. A request to lift my spirits: Regular commenters, lurkers, et al., Other than the election, share something noteworthy about this year, plus something you’re hopeful about for next year.

***

Comments:

Colin: Bought a house this year. Very nice book deal next year?

Donnaeve: My debut. Even better sales next year.

Colin: Unpacked all boxes. Significant book deal?

french sojourn: Escargot. More escargot.

Colin: Hung all pictures. Major book deal? That makes three comments. Happy New Year!

Hope was the first one. Found by the tyre swing with no undergarments on. Caught their lad. Plucked him out of class by his short trousers and put him up high in the dock. Acquitted in the court of public opinion and returned to town raised up on shoulders. Killed again and quick to do it too. The zealots still proclaimed it was someone from outside gettin' in. They all agreed but not their boy. Better not delay in saying it. Next birthday sixteen years could fit him out for a noose. "Guilty," he said.

Hope-a-lot floated on the airs of summer. She practiced her dance and made it better but Sugarplum faeries are rather carefree for most of the year. Then the summer sun faded and the wind turned cold.

It was time to report for work. She looked for friends on the way but only saw first year faeries cavorting. The guard gave her a sad smile and pointed to the next door. It was already open so she walked in. She found her locker and opened it. Her heart sank. She had grown up and was now a ghost of Christmas past

When my baby was a month, he colicked. Exhausted, I held him. Did she? When seven, he broke his arm skateboarding. I rushed him to the hospital. Did she?High school freshman year, he washed his hands, over and over. I found him help and hope.Did she?

“Hope springs eternal,” they say.“Youth dries faster than a shallow puddle,” they don’t say.Lines become canyons, brightness dulls. There are new clefts in my chin and the tip of my nose, new freckles everywhere (beauty marks one year, a lot of unsightly spots begging for a laser the next.) I have yellowed and curled. I press my brows up and back. What would it cost? I wonder. How much would it hurt?“She better not be crying again.” My husband opens the door, slumps against the wall, says in a hopeless voice, “Jesus, Jenny. You’re only turning 35.”

The world is in pieces, but maybe things need to break to be made whole again. Hope put down the needle and thread. She held the shimmery spandex up to the light. Next to her, Pounces-the-Cat purred as if anticipating the peace that would fall over the world like a blanket. They would not spend another year in a world overflowing with criminals and zea lots. Pounces bared her kitty fangs in a non-threatening yawn. “It will get better,” Hope insisted as she scratched the super soft tummy, feeling power sizzling out of her fingertips like electricity.

She breathed deeply, the mask pressed against her face. The pinch of elastic straps only a minor nuisance as the halothane coursed through her bloodstream. It had been a rough year. Catching her husband tangled with his assistant had only been the start. She had hoped he would forgive her for setting his car on fire. His restraining order said he didn’t.

“Your next patient is here”

“Thanks.” She said, removing the mask and swinging her legs off the chair. She turned off the valve to the gas and lifted the dental pick. She felt much better.

If they're telling our stories, to what given extent might one find a stray ear. Rush open the door and may see how she sought better than mere--malfeasance in office, be it pubic or not. My god it's too much let's forgo the dog's snot for there's a lot that can go passed in one year.

We were buddies, all three. For years, side by side, except on the narrower sidewalks where I'd drop back a pace; a natural volunteer.We were close, but we'd hang out on Tuesdays, and I'd a lot of Tuesday shifts; the guys understood. If one of us couldn't pay the next bill, we helped each other. I was the lucky one, always had work. They were each other's Best Man. I'm not one for speeches. I'd hoped they wouldn't ask me; the guys knew that.Nothing else for it. They've kids now. l'd better take the rap. It is Christmas.

Meg searched my face for the answer. We’d wanted a better life. But being an extra in the zombie apocalypse was the best I’d been able to do. Some of those people were Walking Dead freaks, zealots. I did it for the nonexistent paycheck. That, and the makeup.

Been three weeks since I visited the Wall.A lot of jagged barbs and rough-cut wire, it stood ten feet tall against hazy foreign skies. It felt taller, I think, if you stood on the soft hope of your dreams.They’d rolled it out four weeks ago. Felt like years.Separate the strikers from the scabs.Stay away from your betters, management said.Workers on one side, ungratefuls on the other, management said.Next to my side, I picked up a squat metal box.I flicked the switch, chucking my gift up and over, smiling.Who’s ungrateful now? I said.

Ole Smokey's lined with rockers. Guy strums Cohen’s, So Long Marianne, yearning for better days. Bowie, too. I raise a whiskey. Goes down like Gatlinburg. “Like he matters,” a voice echoes above the melody. I tuck my head, rough skin, a shade darker than the bar. Like I matter. Gloves spoon - lovers next to my empty glass. TV's mute. Images scroll across the screen: Vengeful Zealots; Day of Judgement; One hell-fire missile at a time. Screen fades. Custom orthopedics. Sad souls to happy soles. “It's time that we began to laugh…and cry and laugh about it all again.”

The man scowled. “Trying’s not enough if you hope to replace me! I have a reputation to uphold. Trying gets you caught. Now,” he said sliding fresh paper toward the boy, “Do it right.”

Prent gripped his no. 2 and slowly formed rows of jumbled letters. “SFPDALOT…” The clock ticked. Sweat beaded. After a year of tensed silence Prent slid the paper back. The feeble creature eyed it carefully. A smile slithered across wrinkled skin as he nodded approval to his next-in-line.

These were supposed to be the best years of my life: traveling the world, spoiling the grandkids, finding my zeal. But then the diagnosis came. The losses were insurmountable.First, the ability to move. Next, the ability to speak.Then, the ability to hope.Getting better wasn’t an option. My husband couldn’t bear it. He silently begged me to let go, the truth in his eyes too hard to ignore. Celestial otherworlds called to him.I couldn’t watch him die. I made sure the pillow covered his face.

“How does the defendant plead?”My attorney rose. “Guilty.”But not regretful.

I climb into the costume, sweating buckets before the thing is even zipped. Screw propriety; next time I’m going commando. I can’t walk in the thing, so I get Marty to pull me around in a wagon. The latex suit smells like the rest of the hospital, minus the sick.

The elevator dings, and we ride to the seventh floor. Marty pulls me into my six-year-old godson’s room.

“Mommy!” He screams, pointing at the “Hope you feel alot better soon!” sign draped around my neck. His smile makes the sweat and the stink worth it. “Look! It’s a real alot!”

Didn’t matter. She bought a whole case of Spam and individually wrapped each tin. The Mormon Bible was on Amazon. Easy. But she better not let Roger ever see the last request. Luckily she knew just where to buy them.Pleased with herself, she rechecked Jeremy’s scribbled list:

I’ve just informed my wife that I’m leaving for Belize on New Year’s Eve. With my secretary. She’s taking it a lot better than most women would. She plucks an envelope from our Christmas tree and hands it to me.

“You shouldn’t have.” I hope she can return it.

“I didn’t.” She looks me in the eye. “It’s for Darren.”

Darren, my best friend, lives next door. “You got him a gift?”

“Open it.”

I slide a finger under the flap and remove a black and white glossy. “What is it?”

Everybody knows the Macgregor place is haunted. Nobody cares except a smarmy TV host. And me.

Ten pm. The moonlight is dismal, otherworldly, casting the shadow of a long-ago knife. Footsteps echo peculiarly in my ears, then the TV lights flare. Cliff Pryce adjusts his hairpiece.

"This is where Coira Macgregor was stabbed and hung on a gibbet. Terrible." He makes a sorrowful face. "But is there really a Macgregor ghost? I'll be staying here alone tonight. Watch my report tomorrow!"

She used to imagine the year as a complete circle. However there were so many circles this year: a typhoon breach in the sanctuary of home, a void once occupied by a tumor, a deep dint in the highway brimming with malice, the family crown missing two of its younger and shiny gems. And a ring of gold, once forged in the spiritual otherworld of "for better or worse" cratered now by wear and weary. 2016 – life and loss encircling a core of hope.

She would imagine next year as a straight line, not a sobering, circuit of circles.

Hope fled the room the moment we entered. After the scans a day earlier, it's obvious what's coming next. The silence has become something almost visceral. Others would plow ahead, but if delaying makes him feel better, I can wait.

He adjusts his wristwatch. Scratches at his beard.

"Whenever you're ready."

His head snaps up. "Of course."

He futzes with my folder. "It's what we feared. Inoperable." He turns away. "I'm sorry."

No Hoper, her sister calls him. Her father. Slumped at the melamine table, bottle next to his lips, the year draining away with nothing better than rage or semi oblivion. For him. Hell for them. Although she too holds the rage.

Between the binges, between the blurred lines melded by blood. Father and daughters. And more. She never wonders where her mother is.

Her blue eyes his, her father's, like a Nazi zealot's advert for purity. The chosen race. One she knows she will never win. Impurity. She sees it in her sister's eyes and knows where her mother is.

Our first day in the city ended with a chill. This evening, outside of Hamilton, a wild-eyed oracle told me the future. I’m writing it down on the off chance that it should come to pass.

When the Year-One Aqua Lottery begins (this sounds exciting!), the fate of the world rests in three accomplishments. First, put all hope in government. You’ll never have to worry or think for yourself. Next. . . .

Uhmm, actually, if the first accomplishment is achieved, I bet terms two and three won’t matter.

The Fabulous Blog Readers

Search This Blog

The 411

I'm a literary agent in NYC. I specialize in crime fiction and narrative non-fiction (history and biography.) I'll be glad to receive a query letter from you; guidelines to help you decide if I'm looking for what you write are below.
There are several posts labelled "query pitfalls" and "annoy me" that may help you avoid some common mistakes when querying.